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Eyrir's Dottirs
Or Penny's Daughters “Hush, little baby, don't say a word, Mama's going to buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird don't sing, Mama's going to buy you a diamond ring...“ In time with her singing, Penny carves ribbons from the log, giving the soul trapped inside form. She has no idea why the song comes to her, it brings up memories of a green forest and pink blossoms. Memories of her looking up at a chin moving in time with the song. It's a silly surreal fantasy of course; she knows that trees are white. That does not stop the tear from running down to the tip of her nose and hanging there until, before she can wipe it away, it drops to the wood below. There the tear settles in and mars the uniform white with a single black spot. A cursory scape, and then a more firm one, reveals that the stain has sunk in deep. Perhaps permanently. After many hours of work the pulpy mass of wood is peeled away to reveal a young woman forever locked in a fetal position. As of yet, this woman has no face. Penny is dreading what must come next. Slowly, deliberately, and in the same amount of time it took her to carve the entire body, the face finally emerges. Penny stares into a warped reflection of herself. Her own face, frozen in a rictus of pain, gazing at her out of this curled and twisted body. The instructions were quite specific on what expression to cut. His mind conceived and commissioned these works, but it was her body that labored to bring them into existence. Penny fights the urge to vomit, for there is still sanding and staining to be done. Time passes and her job is completed. A headache has worked its way from the base of her neck on up. Penny packs her tools, looking at the fruit of her labors as little as possible. Still, it does not escape her notice that the tear she shed bled through the coat of varnish, appropriately enough having landed where Penny had carved the tear duct of the unblinking eye attached to her paralyzed copy. Penny's shoes click on the polished stone floor of the warren. Her walk through the subterranean lair leads her past more of her works. There, in the corner, is her body upright, arms outstretched, and her face positively orgasmic. The arms have many coats draped over them. A second Penny kneels in a raised alcove on the wall. It gazes straight up, with its mouth open in horror, providing a socket for the handle of a blazing torch. Here is a third Penny raised up on a pedestal. It is cross legged with a look of utter contentment on its face. Its torso has been hollowed out and had shelves inserted to hold the many volumes written by an ancient poet. Here, there, and everywhere in this place she encounters more of her, built by her, violated by her. It's impossible to not imagine that their eyes follow her everywhere she goes, whether their eyelids are carved closed or not. Finally reaching the den, Penny strides in and stands next to a throne made up of herself four times over. Each one intertwined in such a complex manner as to hurt the eyes and unsettle the stomach. Unless you happened to be the one who carved such a thing, which in that case it only nauseates Penny. The flames from the hearth highlight all the wrong parts of the throne in a burning glow and the deep shadows don't cover nearly enough. “Your stool is finished.” her voice wavers as she spoke, but her smile remains as firm as ever. The Rat leans forward from his throne and gazes at her. She has difficulty deciding which pair of eyes to follow as he speaks. “Good. Now for the next favor you owe me. I think I would like if you danced with me. My commissions are lovely, but they will always lack your grace of movement.” Characters involved in this Chronicle: Penny Category:Fiction